The smashed windshield and bashed-in headlights made her sick to her stomach, but it was the words scrawled in blood-red spray paint that chilled her to the bone.
Die Bitch!
She spun around, searching the dimly lit parking area for any sign of threat.
No one. Nothing. Just a lot full of cars and trucks whose owners remained inside the low-rent establishment boozing it up and ogling half-naked women.
Annette’s pulse raced, sending her heart into a frantic rhythm as her attention swung to her damaged car once more.
Oh, yeah. Time was very, very short.
If she didn’t get Tanner on her team soon ... the game—as he called it—would be over.
And they would both lose.
24
Sunday, September 12, 2:15 p.m.
Atmore, Alabama
Holman Prison
Carson measured the interview room one impatient stride at a time. Back and forth. He’d waited half an hour. Warden Fallon hadn’t been too happy to hear from him, particularly on Sunday, but he hadn’t dared refuse Carson’s request. Having District Attorney Donald Wainwright as his mentor had its perks.
He’d gotten a call en route from Nashville PD. The lab had rushed the ballistics report on the slugs found in the body of his BMW. No matches. No witnesses had come forward. With no leads, there was little chance the incident would be solved.
The black sedan, possibly a vintage Crown Vic, hadn’t shown up in his rearview mirror in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe he wasn’t being followed.
But the shooting—that was a different story. That had to have been personal. No two ways about it. The BMW would be picked up for the necessary repairs. Meanwhile he was stuck with the rental.
Carson glanced at his watch. There was little if any possibility that he was going to get back to Birmingham in time for escorting Elizabeth to the Newton Ball. She would be disappointed. But he had to do this.
He let out a big breath. He had to prove Baxter was wrong.
The entire night before had been exhausted going over the Tanner case file. Relooking at reports Carson had already analyzed a hundred times. Every crime scene photo. Every lab report. Every damned newspaper clipping related to Stokes. Then he’d reviewed the Baxter/Fleming file again. Nothing. He’d learned absolutely nothing. All he had was her accusations. Accusations from a woman whose record made her an unreliable witness at best.
Carson had to be crazy even to consider her claim.
Agent Schaffer’s suggestion that Wainwright wasn’t being on the up-and-up with Carson echoed in his brain even now. Wainwright had explained away that allegation. Baxter’s bullshit story in no way backed up Schaffer’s theory. Carson had only followed through with this ridiculous idea of talking to Stokes to prove to Baxter once and for all that she had one choice. Take the deal.
Ask yourself if you’ll ever really know what happened.
As certain as Carson was of his convictions ... a part of him was absolutely terrified that she might be right to some degree. There were too many loose ends cropping up. Too many questions.
But ... if he believed even part of what she suggested, then that meant everything he’d ever believed in was wrong.
The interview room door opened with a distinct clang, shattering the troubling thoughts. Two guards guided Joseph Stokes into the room.
“Stand back, Mr. Tanner, while we secure the prisoner.”
Carson backed away a couple of steps. Stokes kept his head lowered in feigned humility while the guards seated him and secured his shackles to the eye hook in the concrete floor. The monster looked frail and vulnerable in the baggy prison jumpsuit. But Carson knew better.
“We’ll be right outside, sir, if you need us,” the same guard who’d first spoken explained.
“Thank you.” Carson waited where he stood until the two had vacated the room and closed the door, leaving him alone with Stokes. As he approached the table Stokes raised his gaze to meet Carson’s.
He grinned as triumphantly as if he’d just been informed his conviction had been reversed. “I knew you’d come.” Laughter rumbled from his vile throat. “You can’t stand not knowing everything.”
